Blood
by Cael Fenton
Summary: Padawan Jinn angsts over his first kill. Meanwhile, Master Dooku ponders matters of the heart.


**Author's notes**: This vignette is dedicated to all who have, at one point or another, wished for more Qui-Gon and Dooku interaction. Hope you'll enjoy it.

**Disclaimer**: All recognisable characters are property of LucasFilm. **Serenn**, Dooku's forename, belongs to **Jurious**, and I am using it with her permission. Most grateful I am for her generosity. For further **acknowledgements**, see bottom of page.

**BLOOD**

Padawan Jinn knelt on the floor of his quarters, eyes closed, large hands in his lap, long legs folded beneath him. He was meditating.

Or at least trying to.

His jumbled thoughts whirled relentlessly around the inside of his head…merciless, merciless. _Could've stopped, should've_…_I could've stopped it_. He saw it again, again, again, his silent screams, begging for reprieve, availing him none at all. Felt the Force pulse, warm around him, as he pulled the Ogein pirate's weapon toward himself…Only to see it fall with a terribly hollow, terribly loud clank…not as loud as the ensuing roar when the gas-propelled metal projectile erupted in smoke and thunder. Drilling through soiled tunic and emaciated ribs. A ridiculously archaic weapon…It had killed a sentient, a man.

No, no, not the weapon. Neither the blameless steel lines of it, nor the rusty worn grip. He drew a shuddering, tormented breath. It was he who had caused the life to drain from that Ogein. He who had caused the panic, the fear, the pain.

How, for love of merciful Force, had it gone so very wrong?

Why all the pain?

Yet Qui-Gon could've sworn that as the man fell, there had been _relief_ in those eyes…He was seldom wrong about others' feelings.

But this time he must be wrong. How could that man feel relief when he had died and his adversary, Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi apprentice, lived?

Jedi apprentice.

He was not deserving of that title, of his place amongst the galaxy's elite, murderer that he was. Especially, most of all, he did not deserve to be Serenn Dooku's Padawan. He saw that in every icy glance the Jedi Master favoured him with. Qui-Gon must disappoint him very often.

_Murderer, murderer_—Echoing in his head, a strident chant, along with the dozens of scornful titles his classmates had conferred upon him—_clumsy fool_…_klutz_…_overgrown bantha-bones_. Built like a Lusian, they sniggered, not quite behind his back.

He was all of those, and he was a murderer. The Ogein deserved to live and he did not.

He deserved to die.

_Idiot, idiot, can't stay upright on your own two feet if you tried, you damn pile of bantha_…_Why don't you just cut your sorry wrists and have done_…

He was unaware that he was systematically shredding the edge of his tunic where a large, dark spot of blood had long since dried. The blood wasn't confined to that area. His fingers ran round the length of his hem, up his tunic, tracing past his belt, feeling the endless roughness of the blood that had been sprayed over his body.

He flexed his hand a tad bit and felt the caked layer of blood crack. Funny how much blood could be contained in such a slight, slender body…So much blood.

That particular square of fabric having been reduced to loose, hanging threads, his fingers paused. Still, he was unaware.

But the man whose graceful height was barely framed in the threshold was not. He regarded his apprentice silently for an indeterminate period of time. How long? It didn't matter, really. He spoke, and the sound of his voice, all silky smoothness and aristocratic inflection though it was, still shattered the quiet. Sacrilege…almost.

'You should get changed, apprentice.'

'_Yes_, Master.' Breathless, the youth scrambled to obey, nearly tripping over his own feet in process of rising from his position on the floor. He felt the man's jaundiced stare at the back of his head, and a fierce crimson heat, which he knew his Master could see, spread from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears. He grabbed a spare tunic from a nearby shelf and, closing the 'fresher door after him, began to undress.

Outside, Master Dooku sat down on Qui-Gon's bed. He placed his elbows in his lap and steepled his slender fingers. 'Qui-Gon, Qui-Gon,' he said softly, his voice carrying easily into the 'fresher. He deigned to heave a little sigh, the kind of sigh that always reduced Qui-Gon to a quivering, very frightened, very un-self-confident teenager. In the past, such a sigh was often accompanied by corporal punishment, the effects of which the boy allowed no one to see. He healed them himself, careful never to leave a single bloody stain on the sheets.

However, this time, Serenn had no intention of flaying his young apprentice. He paused a moment to inspect his fingernails. Somehow, from inside the 'fresher, Qui-Gon knew exactly what he was doing. It made him feel like a small, distasteful smudge of slime.

'You are no longer an initiate, Qui-Gon. Neither are you,' he paused again, as if searching for the right word. 'Stupid, I believe.'

Of course, his Master hadn't been 'searching for the right word'—Serenn Dooku never 'searched' for anything. The last two words had long been preordained as the final, cruel stroke…In his words, as in everything else, he was rigidly fastidious.

Qui-Gon finished changing and reluctantly opened the door. Serenn continued, 'I know you…dislike…killing. I don't think you need me list that pirate's offences. His death was justified—'

Qui-Gon never thought he would do what he did next. He never even conceived…It was unthinkable…Easier to imagine Master Yoda performing a Corellian jig in midair above the High Council tower.

'No.' His voice, still slipping between the high awkwardness of a boy and the deep, not unpleasant register of manhood, squeaked. He cleared his throat.

Time seemed to freeze. Their reality waited, with bated breath, for what Dooku would do. For a heartbeat, a crack seemed to waver on the edge of existence in the icy mask of his face. Something other than flawless serenity flared in his obsidian eyes. And then, just as quickly as it had come, that terrifying anger dissipated. That made Qui-Gon feel even worse. He would have preferred being worthy of at least his Master's anger.

'What you think isn't my concern, Qui-Gon. You will learn. You will kill many times before you are knighted. Now, Padawan, ready yourself for the evening meal.'Serenn rose and stalked out of the room, his dark cloak rustling behind him.

oooooooOooooooo

Later, Qui-Gon found, not to his surprise, that he couldn't get to sleep. He tossed and turned for hours to no avail. Finally, he got out of bed and walked quietly to Serenn's quarters, using the Force to muffle his passage. Force-enhanced stealth was a skill he had been perfecting privately, and, aside from sparring, it was the only thing he prided himself in. Holding in his breath to avoid getting caught, he hovered outside his Master's door for a few minutes, until satisfied that the man wasn't about to spring out of bed and onto him.

He made his way to the 'fresher, where he exhaled slowly and carefully. Qui-Gon pondered returning to bed, but a seductive voice in his head whispered that he'd made it so far without incident—And there was something he felt compelled to do, something he needed to do. He resolutely shut the 'fresher door and, for the second time that evening, stripped, until he was standing quite naked, shivering slightly. It was cold.

Qui-Gon turned the shower on and adjusted the temperature of the water to the highest setting. He stepped beneath it, teeth clenched determinedly on his lower lip. Immediately, his skin began to redden and blister. Qui-Gon's breath caught, but he still remained stubbornly silent.

He began to scrub himself. Slowly at first, because it hurt bloody blue murder, and then faster, faster, at an almost frantic pace. His skin began to break and bleed. Soon, his face, arms and legs were streaked with his own blood, and more blood swirled in little eddies in the water, draining away to be pumped into Coruscant's sewers…

His breath came in ragged pants. He scrubbed furiously, and suddenly, inexplicably, he stopped. 'What's the use,' he said aloud, and then repeating it, softer, more despairingly, 'What's the use…' Qui-Gon fell silent.

He was oddly beautiful, silhouetted in the flickering yellow light thrown by the glowrod, a deep pool of orangey shadow cast at his feet, lank limbs possessing a slender sprawled elegance not unlike that of a marionette at rest. Later in life, that singularly characteristic beauty would mature into a breathtaking paragon of the word _Jedi_, and all the connotations that came with it. For now, he was just a shivering apprentice, and there were welts, and tracks of blood and scalded skin traced all over him.

It was at this moment, cold, in pain and stark naked, that Qui-Gon heard that unmistakable step outside the 'fresher. The sound of it carried control, self-assurance, and, most of all, a frightening power that always seemed just barely contained. Qui-Gon waited numbly for Dooku to open the door, but he never did. A testy command came from the other side of the door: 'Qui-Gon, put your clothes on and get yourself out here!'

For a moment, resentment kindled in the boy. _How did he know I haven't got anything on?_ Then, as always, he hastened to obey. As he drew the door open, he didn't bother to hide the blood soaking through his tunic.Serenn did not fail to notice it. He raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.

'Once again, Qui-Gon, you have managed to soil a perfectly serviceable tunic. Now, you can spend the rest of the night in it, because you are going straight back to sleep. Is that clear?'

'Yes, Master.'

'Good.'Serenn turned to leave, but he was stopped by a voice that, though trembling on the brink of manhood, always, always sounded very young and very innocent. 'M-Master, I'm s-sorry for—' Qui-Gon stammered.

Serenn's jaw tightened with impatience. 'Yes, Padawan?' He could sense a titanic struggle in his young apprentice, almost as though Qui-Gon were desperately trying to tell him something, but was being blocked by a dark force…

From his bed, Qui-Gon saw the subtle narrowing of Dooku's eyes, the near-invisible way his lips thinned. He hung his head. He should have known better than to try garnering anything from his Master other than relentlessly efficient instruction. 'I'm sorry…about…the tunic, Master,' he said.

From the door, Serenn saw Qui-Gon lower his head. Someone else might have interpreted it as a gesture of apology. Serenn knew that it spoke of a hungry loneliness—more than that, it was despair. His mind's eye took him back to another place, another time and another boy…_Control yourself! Qui-Gon is a gifted apprentice. Nothing more, nothing less. He isn't Initiate Lorian_…Yet deep inside, in a place he allowed not even himself to see, Serenn was aware that the boy he'd momentarily identified Qui-Gon Jinn with wasn't Lorian Nod.

The boy was capable of so much affection—Serenn could see it clearly. Qui-Gon Jinn could give so much love, and he needed it to be returned in kind. He craved affection, something Jedi were trained to do without. Would that be his downfall? _Wouldn't it be ironic, Master Dooku, if your apprentice, Padawan Learner to the immovable Dooku, is brought low by his compassion?_

The other side of it, of course, was that he'd be such a wonderful, compassionate Jedi. How fortunate, how blessed was the initiate who became Qui-Gon Jinn's Padawan! And his Master was lucky too—if only said Master would let Qui-Gon love him. For a moment, Serenn was sore tempted…But then, as so many times in the past, his heart hardened and he replied, 'It is done, Qui-Gon—don't linger on it. Good night.' Then he was gone, shutting the door behind him, leaving Qui-Gon alone in the shadows of the closed room.

**Acknowledgements**: An early scene in _Animorphs 19_ by Katherine Applegate inspired the bit where Qui-Gon scrubs himself to the point of bleeding. Thanks for reading!


End file.
